“I am?”
She nodded. “If you cannot afford someone to help me, you’re going to have to pitch in. You’ve nothing better to do now, do you?”
Gareth gave a fleeting glance to his cupboard. “No, I suppose not.”
She was too smart for him. Opening the door, she pulled out the bottle and handed it to him. “You should pour this down the sink, too.”
“I can get more.” He’d need to if he complied with her ridiculous demands.
“Major Ripton-Jones, for a man with limited income, you need to allocate your resources more appropriately. For seed, machinery, etcetera.”
“Why should I bother planting when I’ll never see the results?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “Because, if you give up drink, I will marry you and you can stay.”
“What?”
“I am, as it happens, an heiress. Once we marry, I will come into enough funds to allow you to keep this place. But I will expect something in return.”
Gareth’s head spun, and not from his unfinished breakfast ale. Of course she wasn’t a housekeeper—her skin was fine as porcelain, her skill in the kitchen execrable. True, she could clean, but anyone could grab a rag and make a difference to his hovel.
“I am as notorious in London as you are in Wales. More so, I should think, although no one has accused me of murder. Yet.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” She folded her arms, obscuring her breasts. Did she notice his hungry look? He could smell lilac and clean skin. How he longed to pull the cork from the bottle in his hand and drain the whole damn thing. “I will help you with your reputation, and in return, once we set this place to rights, you will let me leave to make a new life with at least half my money.”
She was speaking gibberish. Was this some sort of delayed alcoholic delusion? He shook his head to clear it.
“You are absolutely mad.”
“I suppose I am,” she agreed. “It would have been so much easier for you to advertise for a wife. That was my original plan, but I see things are more complicated than I thought.”
“Who are you?”
“That’s immaterial at the moment. Suffice to say that we can be useful to each other. I can help you with your investigation as well. But”—she gave him a stern look—“you must promise to cease spending your days wallowing in self-pity.”
“I—” He was about to deny the undeniable. What she’d said was true. He’d just passed the worst year of his life. With no honor and very little wit.
“Are you on speaking terms with the local minister?”
“Not really.” The Reverend Ian Morgan thought Gareth was Satan incarnate. A heathen. An inebriate. An adulterer. A murderer.
“Well, you shall have to go see him anyway. It will take three weeks to advertise our intention to marry. You can’t afford a special license. Do you want me to go with you?”
This was becoming more and more absurd. He hadn’t even known Mrs. Mont a full week.
He didn’t even know her first name.
“You said I’d have to do something for you.”
“Of course. But we can discuss my leaving later.”
“We’ll discuss it now, I think.” He patted the bed.
Mrs. Mont hesitated, as well she should. Gareth was a dangerous man to sit next to. With one gentle push, he could tip her over on her back and fuck her. Find some relief, for however long. He was so randy he expected it wouldn’t be very—he’d spend as fast and hard as a schoolboy.
As quickly as he had with Bronwen once they were old enough to know what their dissimilar parts were for. As they grew older, they’d taken more time, learned their rhythms, fell deeper into lust, although he’d been very certain it was love, at least on his part.
The times he’d had leave from his commanding officer to come home, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other, the vows to her husband be damned. He had ached with wanting her, although he’d been no saint for fifteen years. There had been women.
She nodded. “If you cannot afford someone to help me, you’re going to have to pitch in. You’ve nothing better to do now, do you?”
Gareth gave a fleeting glance to his cupboard. “No, I suppose not.”
She was too smart for him. Opening the door, she pulled out the bottle and handed it to him. “You should pour this down the sink, too.”
“I can get more.” He’d need to if he complied with her ridiculous demands.
“Major Ripton-Jones, for a man with limited income, you need to allocate your resources more appropriately. For seed, machinery, etcetera.”
“Why should I bother planting when I’ll never see the results?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “Because, if you give up drink, I will marry you and you can stay.”
“What?”
“I am, as it happens, an heiress. Once we marry, I will come into enough funds to allow you to keep this place. But I will expect something in return.”
Gareth’s head spun, and not from his unfinished breakfast ale. Of course she wasn’t a housekeeper—her skin was fine as porcelain, her skill in the kitchen execrable. True, she could clean, but anyone could grab a rag and make a difference to his hovel.
“I am as notorious in London as you are in Wales. More so, I should think, although no one has accused me of murder. Yet.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” She folded her arms, obscuring her breasts. Did she notice his hungry look? He could smell lilac and clean skin. How he longed to pull the cork from the bottle in his hand and drain the whole damn thing. “I will help you with your reputation, and in return, once we set this place to rights, you will let me leave to make a new life with at least half my money.”
She was speaking gibberish. Was this some sort of delayed alcoholic delusion? He shook his head to clear it.
“You are absolutely mad.”
“I suppose I am,” she agreed. “It would have been so much easier for you to advertise for a wife. That was my original plan, but I see things are more complicated than I thought.”
“Who are you?”
“That’s immaterial at the moment. Suffice to say that we can be useful to each other. I can help you with your investigation as well. But”—she gave him a stern look—“you must promise to cease spending your days wallowing in self-pity.”
“I—” He was about to deny the undeniable. What she’d said was true. He’d just passed the worst year of his life. With no honor and very little wit.
“Are you on speaking terms with the local minister?”
“Not really.” The Reverend Ian Morgan thought Gareth was Satan incarnate. A heathen. An inebriate. An adulterer. A murderer.
“Well, you shall have to go see him anyway. It will take three weeks to advertise our intention to marry. You can’t afford a special license. Do you want me to go with you?”
This was becoming more and more absurd. He hadn’t even known Mrs. Mont a full week.
He didn’t even know her first name.
“You said I’d have to do something for you.”
“Of course. But we can discuss my leaving later.”
“We’ll discuss it now, I think.” He patted the bed.
Mrs. Mont hesitated, as well she should. Gareth was a dangerous man to sit next to. With one gentle push, he could tip her over on her back and fuck her. Find some relief, for however long. He was so randy he expected it wouldn’t be very—he’d spend as fast and hard as a schoolboy.
As quickly as he had with Bronwen once they were old enough to know what their dissimilar parts were for. As they grew older, they’d taken more time, learned their rhythms, fell deeper into lust, although he’d been very certain it was love, at least on his part.
The times he’d had leave from his commanding officer to come home, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other, the vows to her husband be damned. He had ached with wanting her, although he’d been no saint for fifteen years. There had been women.
Similar Books
